Despite the gun to his head, Thirteen turned and faced the girl. "The Corrector made their move, I see," he said, not bothering to tamp down the smirk creeping out of his mouth. "Before you shoot me, indulge a dead man with a question."

Eighteen narrowed her eyes. She had won. There wasn't a reason to refuse. Thirteen kept his face neutral, to force her to think along the same thread. "If it's about the Corrector or Primeva, you won't get any from me even under force," she said. "Make it quick. While I still have a sliver of patience."

Thirteen hummed, sticking a lip out. He nodded, showing how he understood her urgency, where she got the gun, and why she needed to get him out of the way. Despite their difference in background and allegiance, she was still as simple as ever. "What is your role in the Game?" he asked. "That's all I want to know."

The safety of the gun clicked off as Eighteen shifted her thumb down. Her arm never went down. "A smart question, but not the right choice," Eighteen said. "But since you asked so nicely, I'll answer it."

His breath lodged in his throat as Eighteen glanced at the people around them. Even in Thirteen's periphery, no one moved. Seven hadn't disappeared, and from his stance, he wasn't planning to. Five had lowered herself into a stance, closing the distance between her and Eighteen. If she struck, Eighteen would fire. Thirteen would be gone in an instant.

"I am an overseer sent by Primeva to see to it that the Game progresses as we intended," she said. "And if it didn't, it's my job to bring it back on track. I am the one who makes sure the Game accomplishes all of its objectives."

Thirteen jerked his chin. "And now you're here, doing exactly that," he said. Why didn't he see this coming from a mile away? Psychometry was so damn useless as an ability and the easiest to fake. He saw her chip. It contained nothing of significance. Wasn't that enough of a clue?

He missed it, not because he didn't follow the flow of logic or that he made a mistake in the middle of the process. He was wrong because he made the wrong assumption. It was doomed from the get-go. They were dead before they even started.

A plan. They needed that. But first, time. "Tell me," he said aloud. "Am I the reason you're ready to take such precautions?"

The hand around the gun tightened. "I know Five is creeping up behind me and that she's close," Eighteen said, stopping the other girl in her tracks. That was one exit plan foiled. "And if you're doing this to buy time you don't have, let me be clear—I have enough ways to kill all of you before you get a foot out of the door."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of going against you and your masters' grand plan." Thirteen snorted. "Why not indulge a dead man with two questions? Or as many questions as I require? I won't be alive for longer, anyway. Might as well know everything there is to this crap. I have to know why I have to die."

Eighteen scowled. "If it's not for that mouth of yours, I would have chosen you," she said. "To answer your question—yes, if not for your presence, Karrel from Section H would have the best probability of surviving and winning the Game."

"And you have not entirely lost her," Thirteen answered. "You know I have her Founding Chip."

She tensed. Oh, she didn't like how he knew that. No one at Primeva liked how Thirteen knew things. Too much for his own good, it seemed. "What else do you know?" she said. "Indulge your executioner with a question?"

"Touché." He inclined his head to one side. It didn't matter if he had been staring at a gun's silent muzzle since entering the room. From the dark leather stock and the glinting silver trigger and barrel, he recognized the gun. His gun. He left it on purpose, and she retrieved it before they left. If he was correct, then it should have four bullets left. Four shots. If he could evade that...

He switched his attention to the conversation at hand, starting a calculation in his head. "I know enough to get the others to turn their abilities against you," he replied. "The external command came from you, right? The Corrector can't have accessed Five and Eight's mainframe from wherever they are. I doubt they'd want to be in the same cage as their mice. They needed another mouse in their stead—learned and enlightened, maybe—but still a mouse."

Eighteen didn't react. She loved to be correct in every situation she was involved in, as he could tell from her stance, her subtle eye-rolls whenever she didn't agree with the sentiments she heard, and her choice of words. That was why Thirteen thought people to be the simplest creatures around. Seeing through them was as easy as looking through transparent glass.

"From the reports I intercepted in Five's chip, you're only given a handful of chances. The Corrector wouldn't green light anything past the limit because they know what it entails," he continued. "You've exhausted your chances, and now you're afraid the Corrector will hold it against you for not doing your job as they intended. The Game wasn't supposed to have multiple winners, right? You're not prepared for the possibility that none of your mice wanted to kill each other."

"I doubt you're not aware of what lies inside our minds. You know Primeva did something to our brains, and stimulating the violence synapse will unravel the safety locks placed in them," Thirteen said. "That's why Five and Eight hadn't gone berserk since Five attacked me the third time."

Eighteen opened her mouth, ready to sweep the control off Thirteen's hands. He pushed on, running his mouth. That was all he was good at, anyway. "You said something interesting earlier." The calculations spread in his head, showing him the most probable course of action with the most survivors. They'd only have to lose one person in that case. "Did the Corrector give you the ultimate decision to choose the winner if push comes to shove?"

She chuckled. "I can kill all of you and leave one of my own choosing," she said. "I bet you're wondering who it could be."

"Five," Thirteen blurted. The word froze its owner, meters away from Eighteen's exposed back. One flick of a knife, and this would all be over. He never met Five's eyes farther than his periphery. He couldn't afford it. "I know the variables Primeva uses in calculating our likelihood of survival. She's got the highest rating since the final counter with Section H. I know because I use the same process too."

Numbers were humanity's best friend as long as one knew how to interpret them. It was the way it has been, and for Thirteen, it was the best comfort.

Eighteen chuckled, stealing Thirteen's attention back to the problem at hand. This one had so many unknowns, and simple elimination wouldn't simply work. He needed a different algorithm. Or a different system, altogether.

"I don't know what the Corrector was thinking when they decided to include the anomaly in this batch," Eighteen said. "But I'm glad you made it this far, Reject. It will make my contribution far greater after I analyze your behavior and extrapolate the events of future Games with a similar presence as yours factored in."

"I'd give you one last chance to play. In three seconds, kill as many as you can," Eighteen said, hooking her finger into the trigger. She tested it with various pulls, as if figuring out the farthest millimeter she could reach without firing a bullet. "Remember: destiny is in your favor when you take it into your hands."

She took a deep breath. "One."

Thirteen ducked low, and lunged forward. Eighteen cursed, lowering her aim. She fired. Smoke rose from the tip of Thirteen's boot, inches from his actual foot. Too late. His body crashed into hers, knocking her to the ground. The gun flew out of her hands, skittering into the shadows untouched by the screens' blue glow. Five and the others closed in, abilities glinting in their eyes. They played the Game as instructed. Just that the first person they turned against was the same.

Eighteen's eyes widened. Her hand drew something from her pocket. A red button disappeared inside the sleek, black shaft as her thumb jammed into it. A monstrous weight slammed into Thirteen's gut, invisible to the eye, yet able to twist his insides into gruesome knots. His knees slammed to the ground, followed by his cheek. Through the black spots sent by the mind-numbing pain coursing through his body, he spied Eighteen's shadow slink towards the fallen weapon. The others were in similar condition—he knew from the groans filling the thick air.

A disgruntled sigh followed by an exasperated click of the tongue laced around the chorus of pained expressions. "I should have done that when I had the chance," Eighteen muttered under her breath. "I can't deny though—I looked cool for a second."

As cool as a stick bug, maybe. Thirteen gritted his teeth against the unrelenting pain gripping his limbs. What was that button, and how could Thirteen stop its effect?

The gun tilted towards his head. "It doesn't feel good without an ability now, does it?" Eighteen's steps clunked against the cold floor, disturbing the colony of dust. Some assaulted Thirteen's nose. It was the most annoying feeling. Ever.

She exhaled, as if to relieve the tension. "It's simple science, really," she continued. She started pacing. Dreadful. "The Founding Chip provides you with an additional biological system, and it forces the body to provide more energy to maintain it. Take that away? The body experiences a drop in concentration of several substances, creating a withdrawal. The word doesn't feel good whatever it pertains to."

Her shadow ebbed from Thirteen's periphery. With every movement driving more strings and tremors into his limbs, he rolled to his side. He watched Eighteen approach the table where the screens lay suspended. "It's not easy preparing that backdoor," she said to no one. Most of her audience was too out of it to listen. "Gotta admit, though. It's nice as a last resort."

Thirteen pushed his sleeve up, biting down on his lips to contain the scream threatening to rip from his throat. The reader's glass surface reflected the screens' blue glow. With the last of his strength, he pressed the chip slotted inside. It popped free.

"Now, to fix the report for this week..." Eighteen muttered under her breath, tapping the butt of the gun against her neck. She sighed. "Oh, that feels good. Perhaps I should visit 'ol Gabe this weekend. I could use a massage—"

She didn't finish her sentences when Thirteen wrapped his arms around her legs. Then, he shoved them aside.